


That Medicine I Need

by chaaachu



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Anal Fingering, Bottom!Cas, M/M, Mentioned Bottom!Dean, Not-Angsty!Endverse, Rimming, mentions of recreational drug use, protective!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-18
Updated: 2015-04-18
Packaged: 2018-03-23 15:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3773401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chaaachu/pseuds/chaaachu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's sweet, the way Dean provides for him, but it can be so fucking infuriating the way he coddles him.  Then again, that's just Dean.  Cas hears the mutters about them around the camp.  They all pretend to miss the way Dean shares Cas' cabin these days and how Cas is the only one exempt from supply runs now.  Nobody bothers stating the obvious.</p><p>----</p><p>When Cas' grace leaves him, Dean's there to show him that humanity doesn't necessarily mean pain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Medicine I Need

 

It's like falling all over again. Things are strange and scary, but he knows it'll pass. Sleep comes in waves, interrupted every few minutes when he startles himself awake. He curls up on the mattress and lets the sheen of sweat cool him off. He doesn't have much experience with hot and cold yet, and he can't tell now whether he's clammy or burning up. It's unpleasant, like so many human things he's found are. All he can do now is alternate between tangling up in the blankets then kicking them off, just to shiver a few minutes later. He's sure he's got the best bedding in the camp, just like he's got the best cabin and is closest to the drinking water. It's sweet, the way Dean provides for him, but it can be so fucking infuriating the way he coddles him. Then again, that's just Dean. Cas hears the mutters about them around the camp. They all pretend to miss the way Dean shares Cas' cabin these days and how Cas is the only one exempt from supply runs now. Nobody bothers stating the obvious.

It's only been a few weeks. His grace, his last tenuous connection to the host, snapped. There was a meeting—planning a victim recovery run—when it hit him like a bullet to the chest, dropping him to his knees, breathless. It had been on a slow decline before that, of course. His wings were the first to go, limp and powerless, years before. It hurt, badly, but he hadn't had much reason to leave Dean's side in the months beforehand anyway. Next went the telekinesis, then the mind-reading. Useful tricks, but nothing he couldn't live without. When he lost his power to heal, that's when the drugs started. Fuck heaven, fuck the angels, fuck the apocalypse. Helping people, healing people, was always his mission. That, and Dean. Dean's stayed by Cas' side through the journey. Sometimes Cas wonders if it's because he no longer has Sam to provide for, his life's purpose invalidated. The pain of Dean losing his brother was tantamount to the pain of Cas losing his grace.

His perception left with his grace too. He can't see souls or see demons. Sometimes he might be able to see a murky haze around the croats, but he can't even say for sure. Dean doesn't get it, and why would he? Cas tried to explain between hits off his joint, tried to tell Dean how it was like being struck blind in one eye after having perfect sight. He's so limited now, he hurts now. Dean's as understanding as he can be, but Cas knows he feels helpless. And when Dean's helpless, Dean takes care of people. It's his nature, his instinct, the one thing he knows he can provide when things get dire.

Cas rolls over again, tangling his legs in the blankets and rubbing his face into the pillow. There's the gentle clack of the strings of beads in lieu of a door. He hears the boots clomp across the floor despite Dean's struggle to mute his 200 lb frame. He freezes, listening. Dean's left foot drags just a little—he's had enough whiskey to loosen him up, but he's not drunk. Cas stays very still. He pretends to be asleep, and he's not sure why. In the past, at the beginning, it didn't take much to startle Dean. Too much emotion, too much intimacy, too many gentle touches and he'd bolt. Sometimes the distance was physical, sometimes it was mental, but it was always temporary. A week, a couple days, half an hour later, he'd be back to asking Cas if he was hungry or if he'd been finding it easier to sleep. These days, though, Dean doesn't startle so easy. Their relationship, such as it is, has changed. Maybe Dean wasn't sure how to deal with a warrior of God, but he knows what to do with a fellow human. The skittish deer is gone, replaced with a vigilant sheepdog. That makes Castiel the sheep, he supposes.

He can hear Dean, standing in place and breathing. Thinking. The bed dips, and there's a solid warmth against his back. Unlike the sweltering heat of the blankets, Dean's warmth soothes Cas' nerves. He can feel his heart, curious thing it is, slowing down. He knows he's safe. Dean's hand hovers over Cas' side for just a second, almost like he's forgotten how things are. How  _they_ are.

“How you feelin'?” The hand snakes down around his ribs, thumb stroking his belly softly.

“I'm fine,” he lies. He will be fine, though. This happens any time he allows himself to come down from uppers. He could probably take a couple Xanax and knock himself out, but sometimes he just needs a clean slate, so to speak. At this point sobriety is almost a self-imposed punishment.

“I hate when you take that shit.” Dean nuzzles his nose in behind Cas' ear. Cas knows he's kind of sweaty and gross, but Dean doesn't seem to mind. He presses his lips to the damp hair at Cas' temples and pets at his stomach in gentle strokes.

“I know you do,” Cas teases, “but I love when you take it with me.” He rolls his hips back gently against Dean. A couple weeks ago, they shared a small bag of crystal meth under the pretense of Dean needing to stay up and strategize a particularly difficult run. Really they just stayed up and fucked for five or six hours until they were sticky and shaking and sore. Cas never outright asks Dean to get high with him, but the offer is always open. Usually they just smoke a joint and touch each other until they fall asleep.

Dean just hums in ambiguous agreement. “You're so sweaty, baby. Take a bath and I'll change your sheets.” He brushes Cas' bangs back from his forehead with his hand, and Cas' eyes flutter closed.

“I think I'm more interested in messing the sheets up with you.” Cas manages a soft chuckle. Dean pats his leg gently, a signal to get up and do as he says. The room is no longer spinning, and just Dean being here is lessening the effects of the come-down. Dean's up right behind him, stripping the sheets off the bed. Cas keeps his eyes on Dean as he strips off his own thin linen shirt—it really is soaked through. He drops the garment to the floor but waits to strip the rest off until Dean's looking his way. It's hard to be seductive when you're barely standing, but he knows he's caught Dean's gaze anyway. He steps up the old-fashioned clawfoot tub and starts the tap. Of course he's got the only cabin with not only indoor plumbing but both a shower and a tub. It takes a minute for the tepid water to heat up, but soon the tub is full and he's able to sink in. Cas had never understood the appeal of bathing before. That's one aspect of his grace that had held on until the end, keeping him clean and hygienic. After it had fully left him a couple weeks ago, it wasn't 24 hours before he could feel how necessary regular bathing was. Lately he finds himself spending an hour or more just luxuriating in that huge tub, sometimes twice a day. Dean teases him for it, offering to grab him some fruity bubble bath on the next supply run, but Cas wouldn't mind that at all.

Dean's propped against the door frame, a soft smile on his face. Cas isn't generally one for scripture, but he can think of more than a few verses that call to mind the man in front of him.  _How beautiful you are, my darling; your eyes are like doves._ Cas beckons him closer with a lazy grin, tugging on his shirt as soon as he's within grabbing range. “I'm gonna need a hand here. Can't manage this on my own.” Dean rolls his eyes fondly, but he's already removing his shirt. He shimmies out of the rest of his clothes and nudges Cas forward a bit. Despite the tub's nearly ridiculous dimensions, it's still a pretty tight fit when Dean slots in behind Cas. As soon as he's settled, the possessive touches come back out, down Cas' arms and around his ribs and gentle strokes along his collarbone. He melts back into Dean, tilting his head slightly to bare his neck. Dean obliges him with a nipping kiss up and down the cord of his neck. He reaches for the soap and lathers Cas up, washing him. Caring for him. That's what Dean does, has always done, and Cas is powerless against him.  _He's so spoiled_ , Cas overheard Jane say to Risa a few days ago.  _Why does Dean treat him like a baby?_ He probably should be offended at the idea, but he's not. It's nice to be spoiled. He wasn't able to  _feel_ the mattress before, wasn't able to  _feel_ the highs he relies on now. He can feel it all now, and he doesn't want to stop. He's a different kind of creature now, and he'll damned well enjoy his creature comforts.

Dean's gently tipping Cas' head back into the water, running his fingers along his scalp. It's nice. The touches feel like another, gentler kind of high, and Cas is fighting to stay awake through it. He blinks and finds that Dean is hauling him up out of the tub. After drying off, neither man bothers with clothes as they fall into bed together. The fresh sheets are like a breeze against his newly clean skin, and he rolls around in them for a second before sidling up against Dean's ribs with a breathy laugh.

“What's so funny?”

“You.” Cas can't see from this angle, but he's pretty sure Dean's cocking an eyebrow at that.

“And what did I do that's so funny?” Dean's voice takes on a new tone, all the same depth as before but with something darker underlaid there, more curious.

“You just take care of me, is all.”

“And that's funny?”

“Pretty sure you're the only one on earth who takes care of their own guardian angel, Dean.”

There's a playful tone in Dean's words now, as he rolls himself over, boxing Cas in with an arm next to either shoulder. “Mm, just thought I'd return the favour.” He dips down to rub his cheek against Cas' jaw, stubble dragging a little. He peppers little kisses all along Cas' collarbone, teasing but sweet.  _Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth!_ Cas feels the blunt angle of Dean's thumb, dragging up his chest to trace around an already peaked nipple. “You don't like me taking care of you?”

“I did not say that,” Cas chides, and allows himself to rub his hands up the smooth planes of muscle on Dean's back. He's so much more broad than he used to be, allowing himself to fill out and bulk up in the last few years.

Dean works his way down Cas' ribs, stopping to pay special attention to seemingly random areas with hot open-mouthed kisses or tiny nipping bites. He draws a nipple into his mouth, sucking gently with just a brush of his teeth and Cas can't keep down the breathless sound that escapes.

“Good. 'Cause I ain't stopping.” If Cas weren't already hard, the libertine grin spread across Dean's face would do the trick. He scratches down the sides of Cas' ribs lightly as he makes his way to where his cock rests, thick and flushed, a smear of pre-come against his belly. Dean hums in approval, pressing a warm kiss to the head, then another. Cas knows better than to urge him on when he's in this sort of mood. He draws up his patience and relaxes. As his eyes flutter closed, he realizes that the hot-and-cold of his come-down has been replaced with just a constant burn in his toes.

A broad hand snakes under his thigh, raising his knee to rest over Dean's shoulder as he makes his way further, further down. The anticipation has Cas struggling to keep his legs steady, especially once Dean's lifted the other thigh up, bracing him with his hands behind his knees, gently bending the smaller man almost in half. Cas can feel the warm breath against his hole, lips just barely brushing the pucker of muscle. There's one tentative lick, then suddenly the broad flat of Dean's tongue swipes across him. _God._ When his grace left him, he would have sworn he couldn't feel a thing. Humanity was so numb and disconnected. His senses were blunted, perception dulled. Maybe he's finally gotten used to it, or maybe he's just found new ways to feel. He wonders if it would have felt the same, Dean's tongue pressing insistently against him, into him. He'd describe it as divine, but that word doesn't mean what it used to these days.

When they first started this, whatever it is, it wasn't like this. It was Dean who needed touched and soothed and stroked and fucked, and Cas was more than happy to provide. His pleasure came from Dean's, just another extension of his mission to relieve Dean's burdens. Ever since Cas found his humanity (or “joined the fuckin' club”, as Dean once called it), the focus has changed. Dean's so determined now to make Cas _feel_ and _enjoy_ and _know_ more of humanity than just the pain.

Suddenly he can feel the blunt thickness of Dean's finger insinuating itself next to his tongue, rubbing and catching the muscle there. He can't help but angle his hips down, seeking out more of that pressure. Finally Dean presses that finger in just slightly, tugging a little on the rim every time he pulls out. It's maddeningly slow, but it soothes Cas' nerves all the same. A second finger is pressing in next to the first, Cas pressing down against the stretch. Despite the slow, methodical way Dean is working Cas open and the generous amount of saliva pooling down on the sheets, there's still a bit of burn. Cas can't begin to count how many times they've done this, and thankfully Dean knows what he needs. He sits up to reach over to the drawer next to the bed, and the cool air against the wet warmth on Cas' hole makes him shiver and clench against the fingers in him. Soon he hears the snick of the cap on the bottle of lube and feels the cold drizzle against him, then the glide is so much smoother.

As he adds another finger, Dean resumes his spot at the head of the bed and Cas draws him down for a kiss. _His mouth is sweetness itself; he is altogether lovely._ There aren't words for the euphoria he finds when he's with Dean. He's done with feeling guilty for seeking pleasure in the devastation surrounding them, and he seeks it greedily now. “Dean... Dean,” he murmurs, knowing that he doesn't need any other words to communicate.

“I got you, baby, I got you.” And he does. He gently removes his fingers, spreading the rest of the lube across his cock. He stares down at Cas while he does, watching the way his chest heaves with each breath. Cas feels pinned under his reverent stare, his perfect face. _You are altogether beautiful, my love; there is no flaw in you._ One hand grips Cas' cheek, spreading him open while the other guides his cock, rubbing in circles against Cas' hole.

He's forgotten how to breathe—in, out, in. His once-infinite patience had run out when his grace had left him. Angelic restraint was replaced with the insatiable need for instant gratification, and he rarely denies himself. Dean sinks in with a quiet hiss, an inch at a time, and Cas locks his ankles behind Dean's back. They move slowly at first, feeling out the rhythm, adjusting. Cas isn't sure he'll ever get used to this, the thick width of Dean spreading him open and full, knees pushed up to his chest. Sometimes they fuck rough, with bites and bruises, but Cas thinks there's nothing he likes more than this—a slow, luscious fuck with Dean's lips pressing against his face, his neck, his chest, Dean's hand twisting in his hair. It's deep and raw and perfect. Dean's making the most perfect sounds, little breathy moans and grunts as he holds Cas' leg up and fucks into him.

Cas' cock, aching and neglected so far, is trapped in the heat and sweat between their bellies. He could probably come from the friction alone, but he doesn't want to. He sneaks a hand between their bodies to loosely jack himself, his breath hitching at the stimulation.

“No, no,” Dean breathes and bats at Cas' fist until it falls away and replaces it with his own. His grip is a little rough, his skin calloused, and it feels fucking amazing. Cas is lost in the sensation, eyes rolling back as Dean picks up the pace, the slap of skin-against-skin filling the cabin. Cas realizes he's making noise, practically pornographic moans and whines, but embarrassment is another one of those human emotions he never really figured out. All he can focus on is the sensation of Dean's cock sliding in and out of him and the burning heat spreading up from his toes, and he grasps the sheets tighter. It's building, higher and higher, making Cas dizzy any time he opens his eyes so he screws them shut instead.

His orgasm blindsides him, vision blacking out as he splatters his stomach white with come. One hand flies to the back of Dean's head, dragging him down so Cas can bury his face into Dean's neck and breathe. Dean keeps fucking him through it all, smearing the mess on their bellies.

There's a hand on Cas' cheek, thumb stroking slowly in contrast to the still-relentless thrust into his ass. He turns his head, meeting the digit with his lips, sucking Dean's thumb into his mouth, laving it with his tongue. The wet warmth of Cas' mouth snaps Dean's restraint, thrusting a few more times before crying out as he spills hot and wet into Cas. They collapse back to the mattress together, sweaty and sated, sheets kicked to the floor. They breathe together for a minute before Dean gets up to find a wet rag to clean Cas up. He wipes him down gently, almost reverently, before finally stretching out next to him.

“I knew we should've waited to change the sheets.”

Dean laughs and pulls Cas close to him. “Yeah yeah, sue me for wanting to do something nice. You feelin' okay?”

And he does. He's still shaky and sweaty, of course, but not from the drugs leaving his system. He'll probably give it another day or two before giving in again. He's got some absinthe stashed in a cabinet that he's dying to try. But for now, he _is_ feeling okay. He nods, starting to drift off again. Dean strokes his hair drowsily. He'll be okay. _For I am sick with love._

**Author's Note:**

> i love endverse, but i hate when 2014!dean is a dick. i just wanted some sweet apocalyptic lovemaking, so i wrote some.
> 
>  
> 
> [come see me on tumblr!](http://pecanpie.co.vu)


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